


When a Good Man Falls

by Aki (Akiko_Natsuko)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Blood and Injury, Friendship, Gen, Rescue, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19030513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Aki
Summary: 'There was no elegance in his plan, but it did its job as he found warm flesh beneath his grasping fingers and gripped hard, using his weight and momentum to push them both down, praying that he wouldn’t land on the wrong end of a blade as he did so. There was no burning pain beyond the one in his shoulder, which he took as a good sign. What wasn’t so good was the terrifying sensation of being in mid-air, the ground which had been treacherous at best due to the rain, but had at least been solid, disappearing from under his feet.And then they were falling.'An ambush ends in disaster, leaving Athos injured and fighting for his life, and the others racing against time to get to him.





	1. Chapter 1

 

    There was a rush to fighting, a clarity that came from knowing that each step could be his last in this deadly dance, that each breath, warm from exertion could also be his last, that thrilled Athos. At some point he had come to realise that was why he had become a Musketeer, chasing that thrill, that feeling of being alive that had been stolen from him with the same noose that had failed to free him from Milady’s clutches. However, that didn’t mean he appreciated fighting in the pouring rain, and as he ducked under a wildly swung sword, he glanced across at Porthos, just in time to see the other man slam one of their unfortunate attackers into the trunk of the tree. The impact was enough to send bark flying in all directions and to have the man crumpling into a heap at the base, eyes rolled back in his head.

“Impressive,” he commented, as Porthos grinned at him before the other man’s eyes widened at movement beyond his shoulder. Without pause, he twisted, driving his blade home into the heart of the man who had been coming up behind him, before glancing back as he drew it free. “However, if you ever suggest a shortcut again, I will shoot you myself.”

“Come on, Athos,” Porthos was unfazed by the threat, ducking as Aramis fired off a shot that would have taken off his head, but instead downed another of the bandits who had come upon them as they cut through the forest, hoping to shorten their trip back to Paris. “It makes a nice change of pace after the long ride.” He was already moving, words lost in the rain and sounds of fighting as he moved to cover D’Artagnan, who had been almost asleep in the saddle before the ambush and was pressed on four sides, the sleep slow to clear from his mind.

“I think I preferred our earlier pace,” Aramis threw into the conversation, as he ducked past Athos, moving to join the other two as D’Artagnan, a little more alert now echoed his sentiments even as he drove an elbow into the nose of one of his assailants.

    Athos shook his head, rolling his eyes at their byplay, watching the water spray off the brim of his hat for a second, before turning to face the next assailant. It was easy enough to sidestep the first swing, parrying it off to the side. The fist that followed clipped his chin, but it had lacked any real strength against wet skin, and Athos swung downwards with his elbow, feeling his attacker’s wrist shatter under the impact. A second blow had him crumbling, lost in the mud at his feet and Athos didn’t spare him a second glance before moving onto the next. Because what they lacked in skill, they were making up for with surprise and sheer numbers, as it seemed that for as many men they had put onto the ground, another three loomed out of the darkness to replace them.  

     He had downed at least three more before pain erupted in his shoulder and stifling a groan, he whirled to face the source of it, realising his mistake a moment too late, as the knife twisted with the movement drawing a strangled cry from his lips. His vision blurred, and it was pure luck that he lifted his blade in time to parry the sword thrust that followed, flinching as metal clashed much too close to his face for comfort. _I’m not going to die here._ It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to think like that, at times almost welcoming the thought of the peace death would bring him, and he growled under his breath, blinking to try and clear his vision, just able to make out the shadowy form looming over him. It wasn’t enough, not when they were this close, and whispering a prayer that would do Aramis proud he lunged forwards.

    There was no elegance in his plan, but it did its job as he found warm flesh beneath his grasping fingers and gripped hard, using his weight and momentum to push them both down, praying that he wouldn’t land on the wrong end of a blade as he did so. There was no burning pain beyond the one in his shoulder, which he took as a good sign. What wasn’t so good was the terrifying sensation of being in mid-air, the ground which had been treacherous at best due to the rain, but had at least been solid, disappearing from under his feet.

 And then they were falling.

    Desperately he tried to release his hold on the bandit, but the man in his panic was gripping at the only solid thing within reach. He twisted and turned, fingers digging into flesh as he tried to free himself, vision whiting out as the bandit, in turn, clawed at him, catching his shoulder and reigniting the pain from his wound. A strangled noise slipping free, even as he jack-knifed, slamming his head into the bandit’s head. The blow was enough to have his ears ringing, and he was almost regretting it when the hands grabbing at him slipped away, the weight that had been pulling him down faster disappearing, a distant cry lost on the wind. He didn’t have time to celebrate his release, throwing his arms out blindly in the hopes of grasping something, anything, that would at least slow if not stop his fall.

       Too late, he remembered that the narrow path that Porthos had directed them too had run along the rim of an old quarry, unsurprised when loose rock and scree greeted his searching fingers. He had little hope as he tried to bury them into the material, desperately seeking purchase, feet scuffing against similar material but sliding helplessly against the steep face. For a second his fingers seemed to find a grip, hissing as full weight swung from his arms and more worryingly his throbbing shoulder, but there was nothing he could to ease it, his breath catching as for a moment he swung in place. Then with a slow skitter of pebbles that heralded worse to come, he felt himself beginning to slide downwards.

 _How high am I?_ It had already been dark before they’d hit the path, with nothing visible below but a deeper shade of black, and he had no idea how far he had fallen already or how far below him the ground lay. He wasn’t keen on finding out. Tilting his head up into the rain, he tried in vain to spy the top as he fought against the slow slide pulling him down. “PORTHOS!” He shouted, realising that his fall was inevitable as he slid a few feet before managing to tighten his grip on the loose rocks, feeling the edge of some of them slicing into his hands, turning his palms and fingers slick with blood. _A little longer,_ he thought, ignoring the burn in his shoulders and the pain spreading through his hands, as he clung on through sheer stubbornness. “ARAMIS! D’ART…” He had no idea if his voice had been loud enough to hear over the rain, and sound of fighting, let alone at this distance, and it was cut off abruptly, as the struggling rock face gave way beneath his weight.

     This time there was nothing for him to grab hold of, and all he could do was throw up his ravaged hands to try and shield his face as half the wall seemed to come away with him. Rubble rained down on him, a mixture of scree and larger rocks, and there was only so much he could do to protect himself, feeling several pieces slicing into his face as they made it through his feeble defences. He lost all sense of direction, head reeling from the sensation of falling and the sickening burn spreading through his shoulder, and all he could do was twist around, knowing that he didn’t want to land on his back, although he doubted that would be enough to save him. He finally glimpsed a darker shadow that he assumed was the ground, looming up out of the night air. It was peppered with the vague shape of trees and rocks, and he squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that it was futile, and for it to be rendered useless as one of the larger rocks that had been falling with him clipped him behind the ear.

    Pain exploded through his head, bringing with it an almost welcome darkness, and he spared a last thought for what the others would find before he surrendered to it. Mercifully unaware as his body slammed into the upper branches of one of the trees he’d spotted through the darkness, freewheeling through branches, oblivious to the fresh wounds his wild tumble inflicted on his helpless body. However, even unconscious, he jerked as the knife was torn violently from his shoulder, dragged downwards in the process, before his body escaped the tree and slammed heavily into the uneven ground beneath.

****

     Porthos let out a triumphant shout as the last of the bandits fled back into the trees, leaving the ground around them littered with their fellows. “Well that was bracing,” he called to the others as he turned away, doubting that they would risk a second attempt as they’d wiped out at least half their number if not more, wiping his blade against the leather of his doublet before sheathing it. A quick pat down revealing that the worst injury he’d received was a cut on his cheek from where he’d ducked a hair too late, and while it was sore, he could live it.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Aramis grumbled, holding up his ruined cloak, which he had flung into the face of one bandit, sparing his own face but leaving the blue material in tatters. Letting it fall to the ground, he looked across at Porthos. “After some thought, I think I agree with Athos’ earlier sentiments. I’ll hold you down, while he shoots you if you take us on another shortcut like this.”

“Athos you’ve corrupted Aramis, he’s lost his sense of adventure and become all prim and proper like you,” Porthos complained with a laugh, before coming up short when there was no tart rejoinder from Athos. “Athos?”

“Where is he?” Aramis demanded, noting the concerned note in Porthos’ voice, turning and scanning the area, expression darkening as he realised that there was no sign of the other man. “Athos?!”

“Athos?!!” D’Artagnan was scanning the ground, kicking over the bodies that were sprawled face down in the mud, while Aramis went to check on the horses that had bolted into trees at the start of the ambush, hoping that Athos had gone to do the same.

    It was Porthos, backtracking to where he had last seen Athos who found a familiar sword half-buried in the mud, as though it had been dropped or knocked out of his friend’s hand. “ATHOS!” He called again, lifting his voice, aware of how loud the rain on the trees was. There was no reply and growling under his breath in an attempt to curb his growing worry he scanned the ground, although he doubted that there were any usable tracks left between the rain and the fighting. However, it only took him a few moments to find the deep gouges in the mud, as though someone’s feet had been dragged through them…backwards, he realised, following their path, and feeling like he had just been punched in the gut as he tracked them to the rim of the quarry where part of the edge had crumbled away. “No…”

“What is it?” Aramis demanded, having returned with their horses in tow and no sign of Athos, catching the quiet groan. Porthos didn’t speak, instead tilting his head towards the precipice and watching as the colour drained out of Aramis’ face as he realised what had happened, letting the reins fall from his hands as he moved to the edge and peered down into the darkness as Porthos moved to join him. “ATHOS! ATHOS!” He roared, and they strained, leaning out as far as they dared, trying to see through the darkness even as they listened for a reply, hushing at D’Artagnan as he rushed to join them as he realised what they were doing.

     D’Artagnan leaned out further than they had, Porthos reaching out to grab his doublet, making sure that he couldn’t join Athos even as he demanded. “Can you see him?”

“It’s too dark.” The younger man shook his head, allowing Porthos to pull him back. “Are you sure that he fell down there?” It was a desperate hope, and Porthos glanced back at the tracks praying that he could say ‘no’ and they would turn around and find Athos appearing between the trees, but that was wishful thinking, and he bowed his head.

“How deep is it?”

“I don’t know,” Porthos admitted, cursing himself for ever suggesting this shortcut, all teasing forgotten as he glanced back at the quarry before moving away. “Come on, we need to find a way down there.”

“Porthos…” Aramis began before trailing off, none of them ready to voice the thoughts that they were all starting to think, aloud. _He might be dead…_ He met Porthos’ gaze, seeing the same fear in his eyes, before forcing a smile. “He will probably be sat down there laughing at us all for worrying so much and grumbling about us being late.” It was a weak stab at comfort, and they all knew it, grim-faced as they moved to the horses. And it was D’Artagnan who crouched down and retrieved Athos’ hat when he spied it lying in the mud, making a futile attempt to brush the dirt off, hanging it carefully of his belt before swinging himself into the shadow and looking at him.

“Let’s find him.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 _I must be dead,_ was the first thought that formed as some kind of awareness returned to Athos. He wasn’t why he felt so sure of that fact, just that he believed it as much as he had ever believed in anything, he just wasn’t sure where he was, because this was nothing like he had imagined. It was just grey and empty. Not fire and brimstone, and not the peaceful ideal so many people hoped and prayed for. It was nothingness, and a chill settled into his skin as he tried to turn around, hoping to find something that would grant him his bearings.

It burned.

     It felt as though he was back in the flames that had engulfed his family home, only this time, there were no friendly hands to pull him free. It hurt. A pain that lanced deep through his body, stealing his breath and bringing tears to his eyes, and at that moment, he knew that he wasn’t dead. Not yet at least, because it hurt too much to be anything but life. _I’m alive._ Oddly that brought him more relief that the thought of being dead had, but not much because although he had instinctively stilled as the burn spread through what he guessed must be his body, although it felt distant, the pain hadn’t abated in the slightest. Maybe it was because he knew that he was alive now, the grey fading a little, or maybe it was his body trying to tell him that he needed help.

As though he didn’t know that.

   _But why?_ Beneath the shifting certainty of whether he was alive or dead, he realised that there was a different nothingness, a gap in his memories. _Where am I?_ They had been travelling back to Paris, he could remember that much. Just as he could still feel the echo of rain hammering down on him…and there had been an ambush, nothing they couldn’t handle even if they’d been caught off guard, and he could vaguely remember the banter, the others voices close to him, but beyond that point his memory became patchy. There were flickers. Rain. Pain. Falling. But nothing that he could make sense of in his current situation, and he frowned. It was a cruel irony that the things he wanted to forget were always the ones that he could remember with perfect clarity, at least until he was deep in his cups, but the things he wanted to remember disappeared like a cloud in the breeze.

   However, one thing had stood out from the memories. He hadn’t been alone. Yet even as his awareness of the world around him remained little more than a thick grey haze that he wasn’t ready to try and fight his way through, he knew that he was alone now. _Where are they?_ They wouldn’t have left him. There had been a time when he’d waited for that to happen, even going so far as to push them towards it, hoping that it would make it hurt less. That was a long time ago. Now he knew better, and his stomach churned with the realisation that they weren’t there, knowing that it would take a lot to keep them away.

_What happened?_

    He couldn’t remember, and the more that he tried to focus the more the grey around him seemed to deepen, snatching his thoughts away, until even the images he had were blurring, fading, leaving him disorientated in his own mind. His thoughts were slowing, what brief awareness he’d had fading, taking with it any thought he might have had of trying to find them, and as his head fell to the side, pain flaring once more, he was lost.

_Where are you…?_

****

    It had cost them valuable time to find the narrow path that broke off from the track they’d been following, leading down into the darkness, and hopefully to the base of the quarry. It clearly wasn’t the main route in, but none of them had been willing to waste more time searching for another path down, especially as the darkness would make it even harder to find. 

  The rain was incessant, making the going even more treacherous as the ground beneath the horses became a quagmire, and more than once they slid forward a few steps before catching themselves, leaving their mounts anxious and their own hearts in their mouths. It didn’t help that their only light now came from the hooded lantern that Porthos was holding aloft, giving them a narrow pool of light to see by. And when D’Artagnan’s horse reared and tried to bolt after the edge of the path gave way as they ventured too close, sending clumps of earth tumbling down into the darkness, Aramis called for them to stop.

“We can’t take the horses any further, they’re just going to get injured, or we are.”

“We’ll be slower on foot,” Porthos pointed out, not arguing, but not happy either. He had been the quietest as they worked their way down the path, and Aramis knew that they would need to deal with that later. Their good-natured jibing about the shortcut taking on a more serious edge now that one of their own was missing, but it didn’t change the fact that Porthos hadn’t intended for any of this to happen, something that Athos would be the first to remind them of if…when they found him.

“I know,” he didn’t like that either, but he knew that one of them needed to think clearly here and with Porthos clearly blaming himself, and D’Artagnan quiet in his worry, it seemed to have fallen to him even though he didn’t feel very clear headed at the moment, concern hidden beneath each word. “However, we’re going to need them to get Athos out of here, so we can’t risk them now.” They couldn’t hide from the fact that Athos was going to be injured, probably grievously so, he thought as he glanced back up the path they’d taken. The descent had been steep even for them, and Athos had fallen that far. However, while he could admit that the situation was serious, what he couldn’t or wouldn’t do was entertain the idea that they might find something worse when they finally found him.

    _We’re taking him home,_ it didn’t sound convincing even in the privacy of his own thoughts, and he was glad that he hadn’t tried to voice it aloud. Glancing away as Porthos sighed but nodded, before moving to dismount. _Please, God, let Athos still be alive,_ he pleaded as he swung himself out of his own saddle, D’Artangan mirroring them with a scowl on the other side of the path as he got his horse back under control.

    They tethered the horses amongst the trees, hoping that the few bandits that had slipped away into the night wouldn’t come after them, before moving on again. This time D’Artagnan took the lead, nervous energy consuming him, and more than once they lost sight of him as he moved beyond the pool of light. He never got too far ahead though, because the going was just as treacherous for them as it had been for the horses, and more than once they had to flail out, grabbing at branches and rocks, as the mud finally gave way to rockier ground. Although this was just as slippery after all the rain, they were no longer having to yank their feet free of the mud, allowing them to move faster, albeit with caution.

    When the ground eventually levelled out a little, Porthos lifted the lantern up as high as he could, and it offered them a fleeting glimpse of the how far down they’d come, glinting of steep rock walls and water beaded trees.

“Can anyone survive a fall like that….” D’Artagnan was the one to give voice to what they were all thinking, and Aramis shared a glance with Porthos.

“If anyone can, Athos can,” Porthos said after a moment, and Aramis nodded, impressed that he hadn’t sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He just hoped that Porthos was right, swallowing as he glanced back up at the steep drop, and found himself whispering another prayer under his breath.

  _Please, God._

*

It was hard to know where they were in relation to where the tracks indicated that Athos had gone over the edge, as they had been unable to leave any kind of marker behind, and it would also depend on how he’d fallen. If he’d managed to arrest the fall at all, or if he’d become tangled with the trees that had grown since the quarry had ceased functioning, then he might have fallen closer to or further from the wall than they were expecting. “Let’s spread out, we don’t want to miss him,” Aramis whispered after a few minutes of searching had turned up nothing, something cold and unpleasant clenching in his gut at the thought that they might just walk past Athos like this. The others didn’t argue, fanning out, although they couldn’t go as far as they might wish; otherwise, they risked losing what little advantage the lantern was giving them.

   At one point there was a startled cry from the direction that D’Artagnan had taken, but before they could ask if he had found something, he had shouted that he had just run afoul of the slippery debris from the quarry. It was a reminder that they weren’t in the safest position, and Aramis moved more cautiously as he inched forward, scanning the ground for any sign of Athos and glancing up at the wall of the quarry, wondering what they were going to do if Athos was caught part way up. There was no way they would find him tonight if that were the case, and if they waited until morning, then it might be too late.

      The minutes ticked by with no sign of Athos, their shouts going unanswered as they abandoned what little caution they’d had, ears straining to hear a response over the tattoo of rain against the trees and rocks. And Aramis was beginning to think that his prayers weren’t going to be answered this time, or that they had been too late as he watched the unsteady path of the lantern as Porthos clambered over the rocks with increasing desperation. _Athos._ It seemed inconceivable that the other man could have fallen, especially in a cowardly ambush and from something like this, and he gritted his teeth and pressed on, refusing to give up hope yet. “ATHOS!” He roared, as though raising his voice would do what the rest of their efforts had failed to do. “ATHOS! ANSWER ME!”

    To his left he heard Porthos shouting as well, some cursing slipping in as the other man’s concerns and guilt began to bubble over, and he waited to hear D’Artagnan echoing their shouts, already turning, a frown forming when he didn’t hear the younger man’s voice. He was about to shout, not willing to lose another of their group, when D’Artagnan’s voice rang out, loud in his excitement and relief, although it didn’t hide the worry beneath his words.

“Aramis I’ve got him! He’s alive!”

“Don’t touch him!” Aramis shouted, barely able to see the pair as D’Artagnan crouched down next to something on the ground, charging past Porthos to get to them, nearly going sprawling as his foot caught on scree. “God knows what damage he did falling all this way.” He’d tried not to think about it while they were searching, but now he was highly aware of how much damage could have been done, and how far they were from any form of help.   _He might have survived the fall, but now we have to keep him alive,_ it was a fight they couldn’t afford to lose, and his mind was already racing as he tried to work out how they were getting out of this.

Until his eyes landed on Athos.

     For a moment, all thoughts skidded to a halt, and he stumbled to a halt, frozen in place as he stared down at his friend. _Athos._ The vision only got worse as Porthos came up behind him, casting light over the sprawled figure of their missing friend, and D’Artagnan’s crouched figure and Aramis spared the latter a quick glance, feeling for him as he saw the pale features and the fear glittering in his eyes. However, he didn’t have any words of comfort for him at the moment, or for Porthos who cursed loudly in his ear as he got a good look at Athos. Instead, he took a step forward and then another, before taking a deep breath as he forced himself to close the last of the distance between them, dropping down to his knees on Athos’ other side.

“Athos…” He breathed, hands hovering over Athos. The other man’s face was a mess of abrasions and forming bruises, a deeper cut trailing across his forehead and round and down his right temple, leaving the right side of his face streaked in blood. He was unconscious, but even then, there was a furrow between his eyes, and Aramis winced in sympathy not wanting to imagine how much pain he had to be in. The head wound was worrying, and for a moment he felt an echo of sympathetic pain in his own head, but he pushed it away, moving his gaze lower, wanting a better feel for what he was dealing with before he risked touching him.

“Aramis…” Porthos began, and Aramis shook his head, still focused on his self-appointed task. It was hard to know just what damage lay beneath the surface, and even though Athos’ armour had clearly borne the brunt of his fall, tattered and torn in places, it was still intact enough to conceal most of what lay beneath. That would need closer examination. However, what he couldn’t miss was the places were branches and rocks had torn through the material to reach the vulnerable flesh beneath, blood shining black under the light of the lantern, and in more than one place he could see the debris caught in the wounds.

    Worrying at his bottom lip, he leant forward. He wanted to keep checking, to know precisely what they were dealing with, but the need to try and rouse Athos was overwhelming. He needed the reassurance that the other man was still with them and that he knew they were there. They all did. He just hoped that the others didn’t notice how badly his hands shook as he reached out. “Athos? Athos can you hear me?” When his voice didn’t elicit a response, he shared a worried glance with D’Artagnan who was still crouched on the other side, before reaching out and lightly patting Athos’ cheek. “Athos, it’s time to wake up now.” He tried to inject a note of command into his voice, knowing that Athos tended to respond better to that than worried pleas, and for a moment, the furrow between Athos’ eyes seemed to deepen. “That’s it…”

“A…” It was a breath of sound, a single letter forced between gritted teeth and bloodied lips, and for a second Athos’ eyes twitched, dark lashes fluttering against too pale skin. However, opening them seemed to be beyond him, a low noise that could only come from pain following in its wake as his movement ceased, although it appeared to Aramis that he wasn’t completely gone again just yet.

“We’re here,” he murmured, leaning in. It wasn’t the reaction he’d wanted, but he wasn’t about to waste the moment they’d been granted, remembering all too well how it had felt back in Savoy to be alone and injured, not sure if anyone was coming for him. He wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone, let alone a friend, and since the prickly Musketeer was in no position to protest, he reached down and gripped his wrist in support. “We’re going to get you out of here.” It was a promise, as sincere and devout as the one he’d made to the Crown. It seemed to help a little, some of the tension easing out of Athos’ expression, although he didn’t react beyond that, and after a minute Aramis had a feeling that he’d slipped under again, trying not to panic at the realisation. “Porthos bring that light closer,” he ordered, knowing that he needed to keep moving, otherwise he was going to lose his focus, and they would all be in trouble.

     With the light directly over him, Athos looked as though he could be dead, and Aramis couldn’t quite keep his eyes from darting down to watch his chest rising and falling. Although there was little comfort in the sight, because it was an unsteady, laboured motion, that spoke of deeper injuries. Ones that could make moving him harder than it was going to be.

“Is he going to be all right?” It was D’Artagnan who asked, voice small and almost lost to the night and Aramis hesitated for a moment before shaking his head.

“I’m not sure.” There was a sharp intake of breath, and he wasn’t sure who from, and he opened his mouth, trying to dredge up something encouraging to say when he paused. At some point, he had put a hand down on the ground to steady himself, distantly noting the cold stone with a wince, not wanting to imagine what that had felt like to land on. However, now he realised that his hand was wet, and not just the dampness that had soaked into every inch of his being from the driving rain. It was just as cold, but it felt different, and as he yanked his hand up, he already knew what he was going to find, although it didn’t make the sight of blood coating his palm any easier. “Help me lift him up!” He barked, not giving them a chance to react, knowing that they must have seen the blood.

   D’Artagnan moved, reaching out to take the lantern, letting Porthos take his position. Hovering anxiously as between them, they carefully eased Athos’s head and shoulders off the ground, each movement slow and cautious, wary of the damage they didn’t know about. However, it wasn’t hard to find the source of the blood, the worry that he had been trying hold at bay, becoming a sinking feeling of dread as he glimpsed the deep wound in Athos’ shoulder. It looked like a knife wound, at least initially, and glancing up and seeing the path of destruction through the branches above them, he had a feeling he knew what had happened.

“We need to do something about that at least before we move him,” he murmured, letting Porthos take most of their friend’s weight so that he could cautiously examine the wound. The knife had to have been in when he’d fallen, the impacts on the way down, causing it to move, tearing the wound and turning it into a different beast entirely.

“But,” Porthos protested glancing around at where they were. It was a less than ideal place to be dealing with injuries, especially serious ones, the rain relentless as it pounded down on them, mud clinging to them.

“He’s not going to make it otherwise,” Aramis snapped, grimacing in apology as he realised how sharp he’d been but not taking it back, as he turned to look at D’Artagnan. “D’Artagnan run back to the horses and find me something to use for bandages. As clean as possible, but I’ll take dry right now.” _Not that it will remain that way,_ he thought, feeling the blood against his hand. _Damn it Athos, you don’t get to die from something like this._


	3. Chapter 3

  

  As soon as D’Artagnan had disappeared into the darkness with a whispered promise to return as quickly as possible, and a worried glance back at Athos. Aramis resumed his inspection, keeping one hand braced against the torn flesh in the hopes of stemming some of the blood flow, as he moved his other hand lightly down the injured Musketeer’s body, Porthos helping to support Athos as best he could. It wasn’t the first time Aramis had been forced to do this, as Athos was notoriously bad at letting them know the full extent of his injuries, and yet this felt a thousand times worse. Part of it was the knowledge that they were lucky that Athos had survived the original fall, let alone hanging on long enough for them to find it. Worse was the realisation that they could still lose him, and that Aramis was their best hope of preventing that from happening, which meant that he couldn’t miss a single thing.

   _As though that will help,_ he thought, sparing a glance for the dark sky above them, and the rain still falling in a heavy shower. Finding the injuries and patching what he could was not going to help them get out of here, and the risk of moving Athos… he shook his head, catching Porthos’ worried glance, knowing that his silence was more telling than his words could ever be. He rambled when nervous, but this went beyond that, and he was afraid that his voice would betray just how bad the situation was, and how deep his fear ran. _Focus._ It was Athos’ voice that cut through his swirling thoughts, just as it always was when situations started to get out of hand, and he smiled slightly, knowing that it was more of a grimace. _Easy for you to say,_ he thought, even as he obeyed the imagined command, pressing lightly as he searched for breaks, or any sign of deeper damage, knowing that both posed more danger than the damage he could already see, especially if they were going to consider moving him.

   The right arm was clearly broken, and Aramis had to pause a moment, taking in the numerous cuts and grazes littering the hand and wrist. _As though he tried to reach out and stop his fall._  It wasn’t something he wanted to imagine, and he was quick to move on. He was methodical but careful as he moved down Athos’ chest, already knowing that there was more damage under the surface from the ragged movement and strained breathing. Even more telling was the low intake breath, as he ran his fingers along the left side, and his gaze darted to Athos’ face hopeful and worried all at once, but apart from a slight movement behind closed lids, there was no reaction. It was a relief, he told himself, because while his efforts would have been made a hundred times easier if Athos was awake to tell him where it hurt, but Aramis wouldn’t wish that amount of pain on anyone, let alone Athos.

“Aramis…”

God knew what his expression had shown to put that amount of worry in Porthos voice, although as he glanced towards the other man, he had a feeling that the worry had just been bubbling up and waiting to burst out. “Bring that light a little closer,” he ordered, realising that for all that Porthos was still supporting Athos, he was stiff, trying to maintain a careful distance between them and Aramis had a good idea why. However, now was not the time to address that topic. Besides, he had a feeling that any words he could drum up would have little effect at the moment because he wasn’t the one that Porthos wanted to hear. Still, his order had the desired effect of making Porthos lean in, casting more light over Athos, it also meant that he couldn’t miss Porthos’ sharp intake of breath, unable to escape the damage at this distance.

“He…”

“He was lucky.” The words felt wooden in his mouth. Not a lie, because he couldn’t let them be a lie, but he couldn’t make himself believe the words either, and neither could Porthos if his grimace were anything to go by, and Aramis was quick to turn his attention back to Athos. There were no other apparent breaks, but he took little comfort in that fact because he knew all to well that the worst damage could be under the surface. Damage that he might not be able to fix. Damage that could still snatch Athos away from him.

_Please, God…_

    There weren’t enough prayers in the world for the miracle that they needed right now, but they were all he had, fingers curling against Athos as his breathing hitched for a moment before finding its previous, unsteady rhythm. “Where is D’Artagnan?” He demanded, what patience he usually had deserting him as he glanced down at Athos and then out into the darkness, trying to quieten the small voice that said that something could have happened.

“He’ll be back,” Porthos stated with such faith that Aramis envied him for a moment.

_Please, God._

**

    It felt like an eternity, time losing its meaning between the dark, rain-filled night and the strained breathing of Athos beside him, the small voice of worry and doubt rising in the back of his mind again when they finally heard a shout from amongst the trees. Porthos moved first, rising to his feet and waving the lantern around to signal where they were, and Aramis was just about to hiss a warning at him, unable to forget that they might not be the only people about in the dark when D’Artagnan came into view, leading his clearly reluctant horse through the trees. The younger man was soaked, and one side of his body was covered in mud, while his cheek was scraped raw, indicating that he had run afoul of the slipperiness in the darkness. However, Aramis spared it little more than a glance, before his attention turned to the horse, and the bags attached to its saddles.

“Did you bring everything?” He demanded incredulously.

“Not quite,” D’artagnan flashed him a grin that fell flat as his gaze darted to Athos, clearly disappointed by the lack of change. “It was easier to bring it all than trying to go back and forth in the dark, and I wasn’t sure we would be leaving tonight…”

“We need to get him somewhere dry as soon as possible,” Aramis cut him off, but there was a hesitation in his words, knowing that it wasn’t going to be that easy. He could see the protest in the other two’s expressions, but was in no mood to entertain them right now, his attention shifting back to Athos. “Bandages.”

    It was a sign of how much time they’d spent together that D’artagnan didn’t argue, tethering the horse and rummaging through one of the saddlebags before bringing the requested bandages across, Porthos moving back into position and holding the lantern up high, trying to give them as much light as possible. Aramis accepted the offering, pleased to note that they were clean and dry for now, choosing to ignore the fact that they bore a striking resemblance to one of Athos’ shirts, as the other man would hopefully prefer being alive to having his shirt in one piece. Although knowing Athos probably not, but that was something to be dealt with if they got through this, and he grimaced, unable to tell himself ‘when’ at the moment, and he took a deep breath before looking up at Porthos. “Give D’Artagnan the light. You’re going to need to hold him tightly because this is going to hurt.”

    Porthos looked dismayed at the idea, but he handed the lantern over without complaint before kneeling down beside them, lips pressed together as he studied Athos. “I…”

“There is no other way,” Aramis cut across him, not unkindly, because he was just as dismayed by the idea of doing anything that might cause Athos more pain. It had been one of the hardest things to come to terms with when he had first learnt field medicine, knowing that sometimes you had to cause pain in order to help, and right now staring at Athos’ still features he was torn between wishing that he had never learned and relief that he had. “That wound has to be dealt with.” At least it could be dealt with as bad as it was, it was the other injuries that scared him more, but he didn’t say that, instead indicating where he wanted Porthos to hold on, scolding D’Artagnan when the lantern dipped a little and fussing until he could no longer delay the inevitable.

    For all his nervousness, his hands were steady as he eased Athos’ armour and shirt out of the way, biting back a curse as the bloodied shirt stuck to the wound, deciding that now was not the time to do anything that might risk the miracle they needed tonight. Eventually, though he had a clear view of the wound, Porthos easing Athos up to give him access, supporting him without Aramis needed to prompt him, the large hands that could kill a man without hesitation, painfully gentle now.  “It’s going to be a while before he can wield a blade,” Porthos muttered grimly, studying the wound, as Aramis began to gently began to clean the tattered and torn flesh as best he could, wincing as he couldn’t help but imagine how it had happened and the pain it must’ve caused.

“But he will be able to?” D’Artagnan asked/

“If God is with us.” _And I don’t mess this up,_ Aramis thought with a frown. The thought of Athos not being able to fight again wasn’t one that he wanted to entertain, although he would take that over losing him, even if he doubted Athos would see it in the same light. “Make sure you have him tight,” he cautioned, as he reached into his pouch for the needle and thread, he kept handy for their inevitable injuries, using the all too brief time it took him to thread the needle to settle his breathing. The rain had slicked his fingers, but that didn’t slow him, and he took a final deep breath before nodding to Porthos, who looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but there, even as he tightened his grip on Athos. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

      Usually, when he had to stitch them up, they would be talking, bantering about the newest scar, joking about the pretty girls that would look on a musketeer’s scars as a sign of his heroics. Either that or they would be cursing at him for sticking them with the needle again and teasing him that he wasn’t quite the prettiest seamstress they’d seen, which usually earned them a scowl and a slightly harder than necessary press of the needle. All that was missing tonight. D’Artangan had fallen silent, careful to keep the lantern in position so that Aramis could see and doing his best to use his body to keep the rain off where Aramis was working. Porthos was speaking, but to Athos whose brow had furrowed a little at the first press of the needle, and there was nothing teasing about the quiet reassurances that everything was going to be all right and that he wasn’t alone.

    Aramis missed the banter, but he was also grateful for it, needing to focus more than he ever had before because this was just the first step. The damage the fall had done was also making it a nightmare to stitch up, and he knew even as he paused to take stock that it was going to leave a nasty scar when it healed. Athos had never been particularly vain about scars, but Aramis had a feeling that this was an evening that they would all prefer to forget, and yet it was going to be permanently written across his friend’s skin.

“Aramis?”

“I’m fine,” he replied more sharply than intended, belying his own words and he shot Porthos an apologetic glance even as he resumed his work.

    He was roughly two-thirds done when the tense silence that had fallen once more was broken by a low groan, and his eyes darted to Athos’ face, just in time to see the other man’s frown become more pronounced. It was the only warning they had, before Athos came to life in Porthos’ arms, trying to move away from the pain of they were causing him, only to realise he was restrained. At any other time, Aramis would have been impressed with the speed with which he shifted gears, lashing out at the arms holding him, but right now, with the knowledge that Athos would be causing himself more damage he wanted to curse.

“Athos! ATHOS!” Aramis flung himself forward as Athos cried out, trusting Porthos to hold him, avoiding the wild fist that swung worryingly close to his nose, and reaching out to grasp the other man’s face, forcing him to look at him. “It’s me, it’s Aramis. It’s Aramis.” He repeated frantically, not sure if it was going to be enough because while Athos was conscious and moving, his eyes were wild and unfocused. Instinct guiding him more than purpose. More out of desperation than anything else, he let the next blow hit, and there was a pause, as though Athos hadn’t expected his hand to connect with anything.

“A...mis?” It wasn’t much of an improvement on earlier, but there was a glimmer of recognition in the wary features, and right now Aramis would take what he could get as he nodded hurriedly. Athos’s gaze drifted seeking out Porthos and D’Artagnan, although Aramis was doubtful about how much he could actually make out at the moment, before shifting back to him. The fight seemed to drain out of Athos then, although he wasn’t sure whether that was because he’d realised, they were all there and that he was safe, or whether it was exhaustion and pain that had brought them to a halt. Probably a combination of both he thought with a frown, leaning closer as he realised that Athos was trying to speak. “…lone…”

_Alone._

     Aramis didn’t need any help understanding that one. It had long been a silent understanding amongst their group that Athos actually hated being alone, for all that he would push and shove them away when he was hurting. It was why one of them would always trail after him when he went out with the intention of getting roaringly drunk, braving the sharp words, and demands to be left alone; and why it had become an unspoken rule, that where possible at least one of them would be given duties in the city if Athos was injured. He bit his lip, sensing that it was more than that this time. Had Athos regained consciousness before they’d found him? He didn’t want to imagine what that would have been like, waking down here in the dark and wet after a fall like that, not knowing what had happened to the others, and from the way, Porthos grimaced he felt the same.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, fingers light against Athos’s face, keeping the wandering gaze on him as best he could, mindful of the cuts and blossoming bruises. “It took us a little while to wrap up the fight, and to find a way down here.” He tried to speak lightly, but it would be a while before they forgot the tension and fear of that descent, and some of it must have bled through because Athos, as dazed and injured he was, was narrowing his eyes. “We’re fine, you’re the only one injured.” Relief greeted his words, and he bit back the urge to snap at Athos to worry about himself for once, knowing that that wouldn’t go across well even if Athos understood what was happening, which was doubtful as his attention was wavering again, eyes heavy-lidded. “I need to finish patching up your shoulder before we can think about getting out of here,” he continued. “It’s going to hurt, but I need you to be as still as possible.”

     A sharp jerk of Athos’ head was his only response, and he could feel the muscles under his fingers tensing as the other musketeer tried to brace himself for the pain to come. Aramis reluctantly withdrawing his hands and moving to reclaim his needle, checking his previous work, relieved to see that it had survived Athos’ thrashing intact. “Have you got him?” He asked Porthos because as much as he wanted to admire Athos’ determination, he knew full well how hard it was to hold yourself still in the face of the kind of pain he would be causing. And while Athos could and would usually sit perfectly still under his ministrations, this was hardly a normal situation, and he was already wishing that he had been able to remain unconscious through the entirety of this, even before the stifled gasp as he pulled the thread taut once more at Porthos’ tense nod.

     It was D’Artagnan who had been silent while they settled Athos, knowing that they had a better handle on Athos in situations like this than he did, who broke the silence. His voice was quiet but strong, rising above the rustling of the leaves, patter of rain and Athos’ increasingly ragged breathing as he began to talk. It was about nothing in particular, avoiding the subject of what they were going to do and the fight that had led to this, focusing on simple things that even Athos could more or less follow in his current state. Gossip from the training yard. Silly rumours from the streets. A little taste of normality that should have seemed utterly out of place in the current situation, and yet was precisely what they needed.

     Athos was distracted, probably more by the sound of the younger man’s voice than the words, while Aramis found himself relaxing a little and finding his stride, and some of the tension had eased out of Porthos’ expression although he remained focused on the task at hand. And even as Athos’ eyes eventually slid shut again, Aramis finally began to let himself hope that maybe just maybe they would be able to get through this one.

_God willing._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the amazing comments, and sorry this has taken so long. I had intended to do it during my holiday a few weeks ago, but I fell ill with plague and four weeks later I am only just getting over it, while also diving back into uni and my thesis. Hopefully, the next chapter will be up much sooner.


	4. Chapter 4

   Aramis was exhausted by the time he had finished stitching the wound shut, and as he pulled his hands away to examine his work, he could feel his fingers beginning to tremble. Hoping that the others didn’t notice, he checked the stitching before nodding with satisfaction. It wasn’t as good as it would’ve been if they’d been inside and had proper lighting, but they were secure, and hopefully, he had managed to minimise the scarring that would be left behind. _As long as there is no infection, or…_ Even tired, his mind wouldn’t settle and there was just too much that could still go wrong, and he fumbled slightly with the last of the bandages as he bound the wound.

“I can’t do much else,” he admitted, looking up at the other two. At some point, D’Artagnan’s voice had faded away into silence after Athos had passed out again, and he realised that they were both almost holding their breath as they watched him work. “He’s not out of the woods by any means.” It wasn’t the reassurance any of them wanted, but it was better than lying to them or himself.

“But…?”

“He stands a chance now,” Aramis replied, stretching stiff shoulders and glancing at Porthos with a slight smile, knowing that he had pushed because Aramis needed to hear the words aloud just as much as they did. “If we can get him back, and keep the wounds clean and infection-free, and…” He was getting into his stride, because as much as he wanted to be optimistic, Athos couldn’t afford for him to get carried away and lose focus, and he was just getting into his stride when Porthos shook his head and spoke up, voice stern.

“We’re not moving him tonight.”

“But…” Aramis immediately protested, gesturing at where they were and the rain that was still coming down on their heads. “We…”

“We’re more likely to cause him further injury if we move him now,” Porthos cut him off again. “It’s dark, we don’t know the area, and it’s dangerously slippery, and we both know that he wouldn’t be able to take another fall. “Aramis snapped his mouth shut because as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t disagree. It was dangerous, and yet… he glanced down at Athos and worried at his bottom lip. Both choices were risky, and for once he honestly wasn’t sure which was the right choice, and he hadn’t realised he’d pressed trembling hands against his eyes until Porthos added in a softer voice. “And you’re exhausted too, we all are.”

“You’re right,” Aramis admitted, lowering his hands. “But…”

“We could split up,” D’Artagnan suggested. “Some of us go for help, and…”

“No.” It was Aramis that cut that idea off at the root, tilting his head towards Athos. “You heard him worrying about being alone. He would be worried if he woke up to find some of us missing, and I would like to avoid causing him any unnecessary stress.” Besides, they still didn’t know the extent of the hidden damage, and Aramis didn’t like the idea of being left short-handed if things went downhill.

“That settles it then,” Porthos declared, climbing to his feet and looking around. “We’re spending the night. We’d better bring the other horses down here too and see if we can rig up something to keep him dry.” He made it sound easy, as though this was nothing more than just another day in the field, but the other two could miss the way his tone fell flat in places or how his gaze lingered on Athos, guilt poorly hidden beneath the joviality.

“I’ll get the horses. I already know the way,” D’Artagnan didn’t look entirely convinced by their decision, but he didn’t argue against it as he got to his feet and held out the lantern for Porthos to take now that he no longer had to hold Athos down. “Besides, you’d either get lost or manage to find the one pretty girl in these woods,” he teased, disappearing out into the rain and darkness before either of them could retort, and Aramis was surprised when a chuckle bubbled up.

“That was one time…” He protested, looking at Porthos who merely lifted an eyebrow, silently questioning the truth of that statement and Aramis flushed before glancing away. Usually, it was Athos who would tease them about these things, the words drawled with a raised eyebrow or a smirk that just tugged the edge of his mouth, and he hadn’t realised how much he’d needed that flash of normality until D’Artagnan had spoken up.

“That boy has been spending too much time with Athos,” Porthos muttered, echoing his thoughts and Aramis snorted.

“Don’t let him hear you call him a boy.”

     The silence was almost comfortable for a moment or two, and then Aramis sighed. “Let’s try and move him into a slightly more sheltered spot,” he suggested, squinting through the darkness. There wasn’t much in the way of cover down here, and he was reluctant to move Athos too far now that they had decided that they were staying put. But, if they could at least get him further under one of the larger trees, it would provide some natural cover, and give them something to use as a basis for a shelter with what little they had. “Can you…?” As reluctant as he was to hand over the care of his patient right now, he knew that Porthos’ size and strength would make it easier, and hopefully lessen the risk of causing more damage by moving him.

“Is it safe?”

“No,” Aramis wouldn’t lie to him. “But it’s a better option than trying to make camp right here.” Besides, the thought of remaining here in the spot where they could have lost Athos, and where the ground was marked with his blood, was unpleasant at best. “Just take it slowly, and…” He cut himself off, knowing that he didn’t need to remind the other man to be careful. He wasn’t sure he had ever met anyone else who was such a dichotomy between their physical size and presence, and their personality, and that was without the unwarranted guilt that he could still see lingering in Porthos’ eyes when he gazed down at Athos as the other man silently handed him the lantern.

    It didn’t stop him from holding his breath, eyes locked on Athos’ face as Porthos gently gathered the wounded musketeer up in his arms, each movement slow and steady, every shift planned for. Athos didn’t stir, but the furrow between his eyes deepened, and at one point he made a soft, pained noise that had Porthos freezing in alarm, only moving again when Aramis prompted him.

     It was a tense, stressful few minutes, and even though Aramis wasn’t the one doing the heavy carrying, he felt as though he was walking a tight rope. _What if I missed something? Or the damage is worse than I thought?_

“…mis? Aramis?!” He blinked, realising that Porthos was calling for him and that he had been holding his breath, and chest aching, he took a deep breath before looking Porthos questioningly. “Here?” Porthos added, in a tone that suggested that he was also repeating that question, tilting his head to the side and Aramis followed his gaze. It wasn’t much, just one of the towering trees with a particularly broad trunk and cover, the leaves and mud beneath it, not quite as mired as they were elsewhere, and he nodded. It would do. Trying not to think about, how much better it would be for Athos if they’d got him out of here, and instead lifting the lantern high, as Porthos crouched so that he could ease Athos down on the ground, sweeping some of the leaves into a rough pillow before settling him on to it.

     Aramis barely waited for him to sit back, before settling the lantern down beside them and kneeling to check on Athos, nerves making him clumsy. Especially, as he could feel Porthos watching his every move, waiting with bated breath, and he could just imagine Athos scoffing and calling them a pair of mother-hens if he was awake. However, he wasn’t awake, and Aramis took his time, leaning back just as they heard D’Artagnan calling out a warning that he was approaching, looking across at Porthos. “It doesn’t seem to have done any damage.” _I hope, and that’s not accounting for the damage that was already out of sight,_ he thought, unable to keep the worries at bay in his own thoughts, although he was pleased to see Porthos relax slightly at his words.

“That’s something at least,” Porthos muttered, before climbing to his feet and going to help D’Artagnan as the younger man emerged from the darkness with the horses in tow, grumbling about them moving without him. Aramis knew that he should help, but he couldn’t bring himself to move from Athos’ side.

_Please God, get him through tonight…_

**

    It had taken them a little while to set up a shelter, managing to hook their bedrolls between the lower hanging branches to provide a rough shelter around Athos. They then took it in turns to keep watch for the rest of the night, and not just to watch over Athos – with strict instructions to rouse Aramis if the injured musketeer woke at all, or if he showed any signs of getting worse during their night. Their other concern was being discovered by the bandits, or anyone else searching for an easy target out here late at night, especially as the small fire that Porthos had managed to coax to life in the rough shelter would be a beacon against their otherwise pitch-black surroundings. However, going without hadn’t been an option, and Athos hadn’t been the only one who had been shivering by the time they had settled for the night. And so, the watches were spent alternating between watching Athos, talking to him in low, soothing voices on the occasions when he became agitated and scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.

   It made for a tense, stressful evening. The darkness loomed around them, and with the continuing rain and the wind that whistled amongst the trees, there were far too many noises that had them jolting towards their weapons. Even those who slept were restless, stirring to check on Athos before settling again, and repeating the process again a short while later, to the point where it was a relief that he wasn’t aware of their scrutiny, as he would have been vocal in his displeasure if he’d known. If only because he would’ve been worried about them not resting properly.

    Aramis had been given the final watch after his efforts to patch Athos up earlier, although he’d been roused a couple of times when Porthos had worried that fever might be settling in when Athos had become slightly more restless. There had been the start of an unhealthy flush in Athos’ cheeks, but mercifully it hadn’t seemed to spread beyond that so far, although it had stopped him from sleeping deeply. Leaving him feeling as though he hadn’t closed his eyes at all when he shuffled across to nudge D’Artagnan who was valiantly fighting the pull of sleep, even as his head bobbed between glancing from Athos to the trees.

“Get some rest,” he murmured to D’Artagnan, waving away the exhausted apology and offer to stay up with him. It might not be the most restive sleep they were getting, but it would make the difference when it came to getting out of here as soon as it was light and considering how quickly the younger man caved, he must’ve realised it too.

    Settling into the spot that D’Artagnan had just vacated, he rubbed his hands up his arms, trying to chase away some of the chill before looking anxiously at Athos. Everyone was cold, but while the rest of them might be cursing it or at the very worst end up with a chill, it could be dangerous for the wounded man. If he was cold, Athos wasn’t showing it though, although it looked as though Porthos had sacrificed his cloak as well at some point, adding to the pile in a futile attempt to hold the chill and damp at bay from the injured man. However, Aramis had a feeling that it had more to do with the threatening fever than anything else, which was a worrying thought.

   His watch passed slowly, and Aramis found it hard not to stay awake, but to keep his attention split between watching their surroundings and keeping an eye on Athos, finding his attention lingering most of the time on Athos.

    It was as the sky that peeked through the cover of the trees began to lighten, softening from inky darkness to a deep blue that promised of the morning to come, that Athos grew restless again. At first, it was just a faint shifting, enough to draw Aramis’ attention but not to cause too much concern. Then he seemed to move too far, catching his injuries, the soft gasp of pain as loud as a scream in the quiet, and Aramis was already shuffling closer with a reassurance on his lips, when Athos moved again, with more purpose this time.

“Athos,” he murmured, leaning over the other man, and sure enough Athos’ eyes were open, although not entirely, as though he was still fighting against unconsciousness. “Athos, can you hear me?” He added, trying to draw his attention, and it took a little longer than he liked for Athos to blink and focus on him, and for a moment he could have sworn that there was a lack of recognition in that gaze. Then Athos blinked again, heavier this time, eyes focusing a little.

“A-Aramis…” He croaked, voice ruined, and Aramis was hit by the unfortunate thought of how he must’ve cried out as he fell, breath catching for a moment. _He’s still here. He’s alive,_ he reminded himself sternly, but his hands still shook as he reached for the waterskin they’d left untouched and close for this very moment.

“Here,” he murmured, carefully easing a hand under Athos head and lifting him so that he could drink. “Let me do it,” he scolded, feeling Athos trying to take more of his weight, and he chose to pretend that it was his tone that got Athos to obey, although he had a feeling it was more exhaustion and his injuries. Especially when the other man only managed a couple of clumsy sips, before sagging with a small shake of his head to show that he was done. Aramis frowned, but carefully eased him down and set the waterskin down within reach, hoping to coax more down him later.

“Where…?” Athos asked after a moment of quiet, that had left Aramis thinking that he might have drifted off again already.

“We’re still in the woods,” Aramis replied quietly, trying not to disturb the others and noting the furrow between Athos’ eyes deepen.  “It wasn’t safe to try and move you last night,” he continued, seeing the confusion that had greeted his words, wondering if Athos had heard his protests about moving him to safety before passing out. However, even with his clarification, the confusion didn’t ease. If anything, it seemed to ratchet up a knot, as Athos’ gaze drifted around their small camp, and into the darkness beyond as though only now noticing it for the first time. And Aramis felt a sinking sensation in his stomach as he watched what little comprehension there had been disappear completely, leaning forward, and waving a hand to catch Athos’ attention once more, noticing the sluggish return of the other man’s gaze. “Athos, do you remember what happened?”

“I…” There was a flash of fear, but it was short-lived and then Athos was frowning, clearly frustrated as he shook his head again, the gesture clearly paining him as he winced. “I- I don’t…” he admitted finally, caught between frustration and confusion, and a new, different fear as his eyes flickered back to the darkness around them and then back to Aramis. “I…”

“It’s all right,” Aramis soothed as best he could, which was hard as his heart was pounding and there was a rushing in his ears, as all his hopeful assurances from earlier seemed to fade away. Of course, Athos couldn’t leave it at that, and now he was moving purposefully, fighting against the covers they’d tucked close to try and stop him shifting too much and injuring himself.

“But…”

“Stop,” Aramis ordered, reaching out to try and stop him, just as a strangled gasp informed him that he was too late in preventing Athos from injuring himself. The noise was enough to rouse Porthos, who bolted upright, searching for a threat and immediately tensing as his eyes fell on the scene in front of him. Aramis spared him a glance, hands now on Athos’ shoulders and gently pressing him down, mindful of the injured one. “Athos,” he snapped when the other man tried to fight him, slipping into the tone he only used when they had pushed him too far. Apparently, Athos recognised that at least, because he immediately still, staring up at Aramis flushed and wide-eyed, breathing heavily from his attempts to get free. “You’re injured.” It was safe enough to say that because the pain was written across the pale features.  “So, I need you to be still and listen to us.”

    He waited a moment to see if there was going to be a protest, but the fight seemed to have gone out of Athos, as had a fair bit of colour. “I need to check your shoulder,” Aramis added with a sinking feeling, taking the slow blink as permission, as he began to ease some of the covers aside. A curse bubbling up as he found darker spots on the bandages that hadn’t been there the last time he’d checked, and he only just managed to stop himself from saying it aloud as he felt Athos watching him. “Stay here, and don’t move any more, you’ve gone and torn some of your stitches,” he scolded, glaring at Athos until he was confident he would obey, although there was an exhausted droop to the other man that told him that Athos likely lacked the energy for any further defiance.

     Still, he hesitated before rising and moving across to Porthos who had been watching them in concern, beckoning for him to lean in closer. “We need to get him out of here,” Aramis said urgently, trying to keep his voice low so that Athos wouldn’t pick up on the full extent of his distress. The last thing they needed was him getting more agitated and risking more of the delicate stitch job, although he needn’t have worried as it looked as though Athos had either dozed off or passed out again while he was talking, although that only deepened his worry. “He’s getting worse, and he managed to tear some of the stitches, and I can’t really do much about that out here.”

“It’s light enough that we should be able to see what we’re doing as long as we’re careful,” Porthos was looking up to where the sky was just visible in places, still a darker blue than they would have liked, but light enough. “How do you want to do this? I don’t think strapping him across one of the horses is the best idea at the moment.”

“Absolutely not,” Aramis paled at the thought of it. It might be their usual method of carting around an injured member, but that was usually dealing with less severe wounds and with an easier ride to safety, not traipsing through the woods. “He’ll need to ride with someone, and you’re probably the best choice as you’ll be able to keep him contained if he starts fighting you.” _When,_ he corrected himself as he studied Athos, noting that the flush was spreading and growing more vivid against the too-pale skin, but he didn’t say that aloud, knowing that it would only make Porthos worry more, and one of them needed to keep a level head.

“So, he gets to punch me in the face?” Porthos demanded, trying to sound offended, and failing as he glanced anxiously at Athos, the guilt from the previous evening making a resurgence.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, and you can take it,” Aramis retorted, trying to keep him focused elsewhere, knowing that he had been successful at least for the time being when Porthos snorted loudly.

“You just don’t want him messing up your pretty face,” he retorted, before moving across to shake D’Artagnan awake before Aramis could register what he’d said, let alone think about retaliating, although they both knew he’d get him back for it later.

 Later, when Athos wasn’t deteriorating in front of their eyes.

*

   There was more speed than finesse as they tore down their camp and readied the horses. Athos had roused again briefly, leading to another round of questions and restlessness, ruining Aramis’ attempts to keep the others calm about the situation, as there was no way to mask Athos’ confusion. Mercifully, they heeded his stern glare and didn’t start panicking – aloud at least, although he had a feeling that he would hear about it once things were more settled. Still, he felt a fresh appreciation for them as Porthos soothed Athos with quiet words, even managing to draw a strained attempt at a smile from the other man before he’d fallen quiet once more, and D’Artagnan focused on taking down the last of the camp with the same single-mindedness that he had once come after Athos with.

      It was even more nerve-wracking moving Athos this morning, and not just because he’d got worse or the spreading blood spots that they could see on the bandages. Porthos was in the saddle, waiting to settle him, which meant that Aramis and D’Artagnan were responsible for getting him up to the other man. The latter going about it, pale-faced but determined, listening intently to their instructions. Aramis was trembling, hyper-aware that each movement, every touch could be doing more damage, and by the time they had Athos settled in front of Athos, he was breathing hard and drenched in sweat. “Have you got him?” This time he couldn’t stop himself from asking, needing the reassurance even though he could see with his own eyes that Porthos had a firm grip on Athos, curling protectively around the wounded man as he nodded grimly.

“I’ve got him, now let's get the hell out of here.”

 


End file.
